


Shadowdancer the Seventh

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-05-23
Updated: 2003-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-20 20:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11342835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Paralyzed from birth, young Fox Mulder is given the power to walk between sunset and dawn-- with only one condition. He must dance every night, in a seemingly harmless homage to the sorceress patron who gave him the gift of mobility. However, Mulder soon discovers that his gift comes with a price. . .





	Shadowdancer the Seventh

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Shadowdancer the Seventh

### Shadowdancer the Seventh

#### by gwendolyn_flight

  


This is a re-write of Shadowdance by Robin Wayne Bailey, although, if you've read the book, be warned that this version doesn't turn out the same. In case you're curious, Mr Bailey seems to prefer simple sentences and minimal description interspersed with vivid imagery, while I run to complex sentences, and believe that if one descriptor is good, then two or three must be better. :) 

Everyone got recast, so here's a quick run-down on ages:  
Mulder: 18(1st half) 23(2nd half)  
Krycek: 24(2nd half)  
Spender: 28(1st half) 33(2nd half)  
CSM: 46(1st half) 51(2nd half)  
The Witch of Shanalane: 18(1st half) 23(2nd half)  
Skinner: 38(1st half) 43(2nd half)  
Teena: 35(1st half)  
William: 43(1st half) 48(2nd half)  
Diana: 13(1st half) 18(2nd half)  
Scully: 24(1st half) 29(2nd half)  


This chapter has some fairly graphic consensual M/M sex toward the end, but it's fairly short and a bit more like mutual masturbation than actual sex. 

* * *

Shadowdancer  
Chapter Seven 

ISPOR BY DAY was quite different from the Ispor Mulder and Alex had traveled through at night. Gone were the moonlit mountain peaks and star-streaked rivers, the vast gray and white plains so beautiful in their starkness. Under the sun's searing glare, the land screamed. The grass was shriveled into a coarse brown hair that only grew in clumps and patches. Dust swirled and eddied in the slightest wind. The trees stood like frail and fatigued old men, stooped and twisted, as if even their wilted leaved were too heavy to bear in such torrid heat. 

The deeper into Ispor they journeyed, the worse were the effects of the drought. Ponds and small lakes lay like dried scabs on the earth, leeched of water; the black silt bottoms were caked and cracked depressions where fish scales and tiny scattered bones gleamed. Even the larger lakes and streams shrank away from their banks, leaving rings or stretches of mud where clouds of insects lazily droned. 

Mulder stood outside his tent, remembering all he had seen that day. Though night had fallen, the air was still warm enough to cause a few beads of sweat to trickle down the valley of his chest. He caught them on his fingertips, and tasted his own salt tang as he gazed into the distance. 

The tent fabric gave a slight rustle as Alex slipped out and joined him. "What are you thinking about?" he asked softly, touching Mulder's shoulder. 

Mulder let go a long breath and rubbed the ball of his thumb over his lips. "I was remembering that deer carcass we passed," he answered slowly. "It must have died from thirst." He stared toward a faint star that hung just above the horizon. He'd specifically chosen this spot for his tent, on the outer perimeter of the camp, facing away from all the others. It was quieter, more private. It made it easier to steal away when he had to dance. "Sometimes I feel like that," he went on softly. "Like I'm dying of thirst. Only its not water that I need. I don't know what it is." 

Alex didn't say anything, but his fingers massaged the taut muscles of Mulder's neck. Mulder leaned his head to the side and closed his eyes, tried to feel nothing at all but the gentle hand doing its work. The wind brushed his nipples, and the dim notes of an unnatural music hovered just at the edge of the night, where only he could hear them. It was almost time. 

"I have to dance," he said after a long silence. 

Alex's hand continued to massage. "I know." 

"Walk with me," Mulder offered, "just a little way." 

The dry grass made a brittle sound beneath their thin sandals as they walked through the darkness. Most of the camp was asleep, but as Mulder glanced back over his shoulder, he saw, here and there, the shadows and silhouettes of men and women who still clustered around a late fire swapping tales, men like himself, he suspected, who belonged more to the night than to the day. He wondered if Scully might be among them. 

The wind nudged gently at his back, and he walked on. Already, the soundless music of the night played clearer in his head. He reached for Alex's hand, as though his touch might somehow anchor him and hold him back. Yet that wasn't what he wanted. He loved the dance. Only while he danced could he merge with the earth. Only while he danced could he touch the gods. 

At the foot of the low hill, Mulder stopped and looked back. The low fires of the camp were barely visible. "Wait for me here," he said to his friend. 

"Let me come with you," Alex responded, his voice little more than a whisper, like the rustle of the breeze -- a breeze which bore the music that called him. 

Mulder let go of his hand. "No." He wrapped Alex in his arms for a long moment, feeling the liquid flex of muscle beneath skin for a long moment, then backed away. "Just wait," he continued, catching Alex's eyes with his own, searching them for understanding or agreement. "Wait, and I'll know that you're near. You'll be in my thoughts; I will dance for you." 

"But I won't see it," Alex said, his jade eyes piercing Mulder with his sadness and longing. 

"The gods will see," Mulder told him, cupping the strong line of his jaw in one hand for a lingering moment. "They'll know it's for you I dance." 

He climbed the hill alone. The wind touched his face now with a lover's care, and the music filled him. Legs that were useless by day carried him higher toward a slender moon that had just crested the horizon. Step by step he made his way, feeling the strength and blood and power that surged in his limbs. Excitement grew, and his breath quickened. 

At the summit, he did a slow turn. In the moonlight, Ispor had found its beauty again. What could daylight show him, he considered, to compare with such a vista of shadow and darkness and pale luminescence, where every shape and movement took on a meaning and identity all its own, where hills were not hills, but the rounded backs of sleeping gods, where gnarled trees were the willowy fingers of spirits beckoning men's imaginations. Mystery and subtlety were the offerings of the night! He made a sweeping gesture with his hand, as if he could stir the gloom and make it swirl like smoke. 

On the ground, his shadow in the moonlight made the same motion with its arm as it stretched along the hillside, but to Mulder it looked like an invitation. The wind rushed with a sudden crescendo of music, and he threw back his head. A little cry, like ecstasy, escaped his parted lips. 

The heartbeat of the world became a drumbeat that drove him onward. He drank its rhythm and poured it out again in pure motion. The night melted as all things real and perceivable fused into a music that entered him, penetrated the deepest parts of him, made of him an instrument for its own physical expression. He invented new geometries with the lines of his body, angles and curves that only flesh could shape, and time collapsed into a single, pulsing moment. 

When it was over, he sprawled exhausted on the ground, panting, and dug his fingers into the earth. Though his body rested, his soul still spun to the last diminishing strains. Finally, the music faded away, and the wind was just the wind. 

He rolled over onto his back. The moon hung silent and solitary in the black sky. Only it wasn't the moon to him now. It was a face, the face of the Witch of Shanalane. 

Mulder blinked, and the illusion vanished. It was only the moon, after all. 

He rose, brushed the dirt from his kilt, and looked around for his sandals. He couldn't remember removing them, but he found himself barefooted. A little searching turned them up, tossed as they were beneath one of the gnarled trees. He sat back down long enough to put them on and to wrap the soft laces around his calves. At last, he started down the hill. 

Alex lay on the grass, asleep, where Mulder had left him. One arm was folded under his head, and his features were composed with such peace that Mulder was reluctant to wake him. Alex looked like a child when he slept, free from cares or worries, angelic. Mulder half-smiled to himself, and remembering the legendary cleverness of his own namesake, wondered if in slumber he looked half so innocent. 

"Lexi," he whispered. 

Alex's eyes flickered opened. Calmly, he sat up and rubbed a thumb and forefinger over his eyes. A few blades of dead grass were stuck in his soft sable hair. He flicked them away. "I saw you dance," he said quietly. 

"What?!" Mulder's throat constricted with fear, and his hands clenched into fists that he pressed against his thighs. He'd always dreaded that Lexi might break his promise, follow him, and see him dance. He knew how badly Lexi wanted that. Fear thundered into his heart on a wash of adrenaline. 

He swallowed uncertainly. 

"I dreamed," Alex went on calmly, "and I saw you dance. You said the gods would see you, and they let me see, too, this time, by sending the dream." He closed his eyes as though he could see it all again behind his quivering lids. "You were like a cloud chained to earth, struggling to escape back into the sky." He hesitated. "The chain was your shadow. It wrapped its arms around you, and held you down with a will of its own. It kept you from achieving the heavens. You danced, and it danced with you. It was almost a battle. A beautiful, frightening battle between you," he opened his eyes and looked at Mulder, "and yourself." 

Mulder gazed toward the summit of the hill where he had danced. Alex could not have seen him. The distance was too great, the hill too high. So, it was truly a dream. Perhaps, as Lexi claimed, sent by the gods. Was a dream enough, though, to satisfy his friend's desire? Or would he want more than ever to see the dance itself? 

He held out a hand, clasped Alex's corded forearm, and pulled him to his feet. 

"You're upset," Alex observed, squeezing Mulder's arm gently before letting go. 

"No," Mulder denied, "just tired. We'll reach Parendur tomorrow afternoon." He nodded south towards Ispor's capitol. "Scully will want to start early again, so we should try to sleep tonight." 

"Sleep?" Alex said with surprise. "You? At night?" 

"I know," Mulder answered. "But I'm exhausted, and you got even less sleep this morning. For now, we're traveling with daytimers, so we have to keep their hours." 

They drifted slowly back toward camp, kicking at weeds, pausing sometimes to stare toward the stars or the sound of some nocturnal creature, or to watch a thin dark wisp of cloud roll overhead. The night grew cooler. Mulder felt the dry salt sweat crack on his skin. 

"Lexi," he said softly as he swatted his way through a swarm of gnats. "Remember what you said about a battle?" 

"That part of my dream?" Alex answered, green eyes somewhat bemused. "Yeah, why?" 

Mulder bit his lip, gnawing uneasily. He had never forgotten the man he'd called father, or what had happened at Whisperstone; he couldn't. Each second was burned indelibly behind his eyes, within his brain. Many were the nights he'd lain awake, wondering what had become of him. William had been a good father to Mulder, a good friend. And now Mulder didn't know whether he was alive or dead. But he remembered a face twisted with terror and shame, and he remembered a despairing cry that haunted him still, sometimes, when he dreamed of William running from his room. 

He feared what might happen if Lexi ever saw him dance. He had to be careful, had to make sure that that never happened. He couldn't bear the thought of hurting Alex, of watching him run away, too, as William had done. 

"Mulder?" 

Mulder snatched a tall, half-dead weed and began shredding it with his thumbnail. "Never mind," he told his companion. "I was just thinking." 

"Always good to practice a new skill," Alex said mildly. 

"You should take it up sometime," Mulder said with a grin. 

* * *

Just before noon, they passed by a small village called Chalandri. The pathetic fields where a few brave stalks of wheat had fought up through the parched ground had not been tended for days. Dead sheep rotted on the hillside. A milk cow crawling with black flies sprawled astraddle a ditch, its throat cut, its blood a dried brown stain on the hard-baked yellow earth. 

The wooden buildings had been torched. Here and there, blackened timbers stood at strange angles, rather like thin broken silhouettes that cringed and cowered from the sunlight. Smoke still curled from some of the ashes. Bits of pottery and shattered furniture poked up from the ruins. A few stone houses stood, but fire had gutted the interiors, collapsed the roofs, sometimes cracked a wall. 

Scully halted her troops long enough to search the wreckage. It didn't take long. She paced about, stirred ashes with a tow, picked up the splintered handle of a hoe, peered at it impassively, cast it down again. She walked into one of the stone houses. The windows and doorway bled smoke stains and scorch marks from the heat that had raged inside. Moments later, she emerged, carrying a rhyton that, though blackened with smoke, was miraculously intact. She tucked it gingerly under one arm as she continued through the ruins. In the center of the village, she raised a hand to shield her eyes from the sun and gazed up and down the street. Finally, she returned to stand beside her horse. Before she mounted, she gave the rhyton a last examination, crinkled her copper brows, and dropped it. It broke into three eggshell-thin pieces that were ground into fragments by the passage of her army. It was only pottery, and yet Mulder couldn't help but cast it a last, longing look as he was carried past its remains. Had night fallen, he would have been with Scully every step of the way, exploring each standing house, discovering the village's mysteries, and the reasons behind its destruction. Instead, it was left behind after a cursory investigation, and he was carried helplessly past the very evidence that could lead him to the truth. 

"I didn't see any bodies," Alex whispered into Mulder's ear, distracting him, as they left Chalandri behind. 

Mulder leaned his lead back on his friend's shoulder, and squeezed the arm that was wrapped around his belly for support, accepting the Osiri's attempt. He tried to lose himself again in the rhythm of the horse's motion, but the sun had darkened his pale skin. He itched where his flesh touched Alex's, and every sudden bump or jostle brought a new irritation. "Maybe they were alerted in time and escaped the raiders," he said with an unaccustomed optimism. "We'll probably find everybody safe at Sucrebor." 

They rode side by side with Scully. Mulder looked over as he tried again to reconcile his memories of the slave with this new Scully, this commander of armies. Her face was a placid, clinical, detached mask, even as she briefly turned his way. It yielded nothing, and Mulder wondered just how much he truly knew of Scully and the things that drove her. 

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but through the red glare behind his lids, visions came in small snatches. He kept seeing the charred timbers of Chalandri's houses. Like shadows, he thought, leaning and twisted and broken, caught in the middle of a macabre dance. 

Sucrebor, too, lay in ruin. 

All down the line, Scully's troops fell silent. The smell of death hung in the still air. There were no dead sheep this time, no milk cows. A ragged line of vultures quietly watched them approach, then grudgingly climbed out of the way. 

"A little healthy exercise between courses," Alex whispered morbidly, watching the birds wheel and screech overhead as he followed Scully through the village square. He glanced down at an unrecognizable mound of shredded flesh that might have been a man or a woman. "We're but an intermission, and the grand banquet will resume." 

'More shadows,' Mulder thought, as he stared at the dark, soaring shapes. Ugly birds, they were nevertheless graceful in flight. They circled without effort, dipped and climbed, changed direction with a careful tilt of a broad wing. A thought came to him, unbidden, that described the way they flew. 'Another dance.' 

They paused long enough for Scully to choose two mounted men to ride ahead as scouts. When the twin gleams of their spear points could no longer be seen, she waved to her troop. The march continued, and Sucrebor was left behind. The vultures clacked their reddened beaks by way of applause and returned to their supper. 

'Blackened timbers. Black vultures.' Mulder couldn't put them out of his mind. The images gnawed at him. They overlapped his view of the landscape as if his eyes perceived two scenes, one through the other. 'Black as the cigarette demon's armor, as the shadow of the Witch.' 

She had a way of stealing into his thoughts at the oddest times. 

He wiped an arm over his wet brow, cursing the irritating tingle his touch raised there. He hated the heat, hated the day. 'Hurry, night,' he prayed. The sun beat its way across the polished sky, burning him and bathing him in his own sweat. 

The Akrotir Mountains loomed in the south. Scully quickened the pace, even though most of her soldiers marched on foot. They hadn't made good time. It would be after sundown before they reached the foothills where Parendur nestled. 

Mulder's spirits lifted a little. "I'll ride into the city on my own horse," he told Scully. 

Alex ground his stubbled chin into Mulder's shoulder. "Ingrate. Tired of my company?" 

"Not of your company," Scully suggested straight-faced, "but maybe of your stink." She wiped copper hair from her eyes, darkened to russet with her sweat, then added, "This heat." 

"Allow me my pride," Mulder said with a faint smile. He brushed his palm over Alex's arm. "It's been five years since I've seen Lord Skinner. I'd like to greet him on my feet." 

Before they had traveled much farther, Scully's scouts returned. The two raced up, covered with dust and filth, their thighs slick with the lather and foam of their horses' sweat. They pulled hard on their reins as they met the front of the line, and their mounts stumbled to a halt, wheezing with dangerously labored breaths as the riders made their report. 

Mulder looked at one of the soldiers with particular interest. Dogget, his commander had called him earlier. He was little more than a boy, younger than Mulder or Alex, though not by much. Yet underneath the grime and sweat was a powerful warrior's body and eyes that sparkled like shards of grey ice. They flickered toward Mulder, lingered for just a moment, then darted away. 

"Parendur is under attack," Doggett told Scully excitedly. "There's an army camped right outside the city's gates and signs of an unsuccessful attempt to breach the walls. Spender's First Army is manning the ramparts, though, and so far the gates remain sealed." He paused long enough to take a swallow from the waterskin his commander offered him. 

"Spender's First." Scully snorted derisively. "That's no more than the city garrison." She glanced around sharply as some of her men chuckled, then turned back to Doggett. "What foe?" she asked with greater patience. "What are their numbers?" 

"They fly no banner or flag that we could see," came the answer. "We crawled on our bellies as close as we dared in daylight, but we couldn't tell who they are." Doggett looked thoughtful, then shrugged. "Their numbers are perhaps two thousand men. Cavalry and footmen. No chariots. They've started building siege equipment. Just ropes and ladders, as far as we could tell. Nothing heavier is in place." 

Scully frowned as she rubbed a hand over her lips and chin. "Almost four times our number," she muttered. "We camp here, then. Spread the word. No fires. All captains at my tent within an hour." She looked at Mulder. "Afraid we'll have to postpone your reunion, boy. I'll send someone to erect your tent." She turned her horse smoothly and rode back along the line, riding with ease that spoke of years in the saddle. 

Scully's troops worked with astounding speed. In no time, the camp sprang up, and all the horses were tethered at its center. No fires were lit, but hard bread and handfuls of grain were distributed to eat. 

Four soldiers swiftly erected a tent for Mulder and Alex, and set up a pair of cots. 

"I wonder what they think," Mulder said as Alex carried him inside. "They've seen me walk at night." 

"The soldiers?" Alex set him down on the cot that was most shaded from the sun. "Who knows what they think? Who cares? The whole camp surely knows their commander thinks highly of you because she treats you with respect and you ride at her side, even if you ride in my arms. And by now, word has probably spread that you're Skinner's adopted son." 

Mulder nodded, frowning for a moment. "It bothers me sometimes, though." 

Alex grinned patiently. "You mean all that garbage about being a whole man?" he asked, rolling his eyes/ "That trash you used to spout?" 

Mulder grinned, too, then hung his head in mock-humility. "You put up with a lot, don't you, Lexi?" 

Alex picked up a waterskin one of the soldiers had left. "Wash yourself," he said, puling the stopper free. He took a quick drink, then squirted a stream that caught Mulder in the face. Mulder sputtered and yelped a protest, wiping his eyes. When he could see again, his friend was gone, and the waterskin, stoppered once more, lay at his side. 

He took a sip, then put the skin aside and sat quietly for a long moment. Slowly, he removed his kilt and unwound his breech cloth. He spread them as best he could over one end of his cot. They were damp with his sweat, but in the heat they would soon dry. He unstoppered the skin again and took another drink, pondering some more before he grabbed the breech cloth back, wet one end of it, and began to clean away the day's grime. 

When Alex returned, Mulder was stretched out naked on the cot with his clothes drying at one end. He watched without a word as Lexi, too, began to undress, but his friend dropped his garments on the ground instead of laying them out. 

Lexi rubbed his nose suddenly. "Smells better in here," he commented. "You took my advice." 

"It's quiet outside," Mulder said. "What's happening?" 

"Scully's posted a minimum guard and ordered everyone else to get some rest, sleep if they can, until an hour after sunset." He sat down on his own cot and unlaced a sandal. Holding it up, he sniffed it, made a wry face, and cast it into a corner. "She intends to attack the enemy army tonight. She invited me to her tent to hear her plan, and it's a good one." 

Mulder waited until his other sandal was off. "You're going to fight," he said quietly. It was almost an accusation. 

Alex looked up and met his gaze. "It's what I do, Mulder." 

Mulder rose up on one elbow. "It's what you _did_!" he whispered intently. "This isn't your battle!" 

Alex's eyes narrowed, and one corner of his mouth pulled upward. He drew a breath and let it out. "Scully -- your friend -- is outnumbered nearly four to one. Even if the city's garrison joins the fight, as she's sure it will, that won't balance the odds. I've already offered her my arm," he said gravely. "I can't withdraw now." 

Mulder stared at him. Alex was resolute, and nothing he could say would change the Osiri's mind. He knew that too well. He caught his lower lip between his teeth, worrying it thoughtfully as he considered the pointlessness of further argument. 

Alex had been a prince and a soldier, the fifth son of Osirit's king, when they first became friends. The fortune of his birth had earned him an education, a warrior's training, and a captain's rank, but with no position at all to speak of in his father's court, and four older brother's before him in line for Osirit's throne, he had left his homeland to travel with Mulder. 

Osirit was a long way from Ispor. But Alex was still Alex. If he had offered his service to Scully, there was no more to be said. And in truth, he could find no fault in Lexi's decision. Quite probably, they both owed their lives to Scully. 

Mulder bit his lip. "Watch your back, then." He sighed as he lay back down and covered his eyes with an arm. 

Alex broke the silence that threatened to grow between them. "Look at me," he said cheerfully. "I'm filthy, and I smell, though not quite as bad as you did before you washed. Where's that waterskin?" 

Mulder opened his eyes and smiled. He'd been using it as a pillow, waiting for his chance. "Right here," he said, bringing it around in one smooth motion, unstoppering it and squeezing hard with both hands. Alex ducked back with a yowl, shielding his eyes, and then gathered himself to lunge. They fought for possession of the skin until Alex wrenched it away, both laughing too hard to breathe. Alex was erect, and Mulder thought that with darkness, he would be as well. 

"Now your cot's all wet," he chided once he'd caught his breath, rising over Mulder. 

Mulder grinned mischievously. "So's yours," he smirked. 

"Well then," Alex said, dropping the skin and sweeping Mulder's kilt and breech cloth to the ground. "We might as well drown in one bed together." He climbed onto the narrow cot beside Mulder, scowled for a moment, and then threw one leg over Mulder's unfeeling hips, straddling him. 

"Lexi?" Mulder stared up into Alex's green eyes, a bit puzzled. "What are you doing?" 

Alex grinned slowly, lowering himself onto his elbows so that their chests were pressed together, nuzzling into Mulder's neck and kissing him gently. "Nothing, really," he said between kisses, his hips rising and falling steadily as he lapped at the wire-taut tension in the tendons of Mulder's throat. Mulder's head rolled to the side, and he was staring blankly at the canvass ceiling of their tent; he blinked at Alex's words, and murmured "Oh, okay," as Alex moved to tongue the dimple that rested between his collar bones. 

Mulder knew intellectually that Alex was humping the crease between his thigh and cock, they'd done so often enough after dark, but Mulder couldn't feel him, couldn't feel anything but the heat creeping into his skin, the little tingling sensations that followed every movement of Lexi's tongue and teeth, each tiny little nip until Alex had reached his mouth and moved to curl his fingers through Mulder's cropped hair, cradling his skull in gentle hands as he sought out the crevices of Mulder's mouth, their tongues sliding together like wet velvet, almost rough and slick and smooth. Mulder scratched his short nails down Lexi's back, feeling the muscles flex as he drove his hips helplessly down at the sensation, groaning deep in his throat, and Mulder clawed at him again, straining their chests together though he was almost too frustrated by his inability to feel to enjoy the simpler pleasure of kissing. But Alex felt good in his arms, and his kiss-swollen lips were irresistibly beautiful when he arched back, bit his lower lip, and came. 

He fell shuddering into Mulder's arms, his warm body quivering with pleasure beneath Mulder's hands, almost purring into the fingers that combed through his thick black hair. After a time Mulder urged him off his chest, and he stretched out on his side by Mulder on the narrow cot, folded one arm under his head, and draped the other over Mulder's waist. Mulder drew in a contented breath, feeling Alex's passion still trembling on his lips. 

Neither said anything more. Mulder looked into Alex's eyes, vivid green with sated lust, until they closed softly. Then he watched the delicate quivering of the pale-veined lids. Breathing was the only sound he heard. Alex's chest rose and fell against his side. It was warm in the tent, and his sunburn itched where their bodies touched, but he kept still. 

"You stink," he whispered. 

"Road cologne," Alex murmured, a weary smile curling his lips. 

Mulder felt the exact moment his friend fell asleep. The arm on his waist suddenly relaxed, and Alex's face composed itself into a perfect semblance of peace. `Dream,' Mulder wished him silently, `dream the world away.' 

There she was again, he thought bitterly, the Witch, stealing into his thoughts. 

Perhaps he shouldn't have come home to Ispor. The land seemed under a curse, and he'd found nothing but trouble. Chohlit, Chalandri, Sucrebor. Now Parendur. And tonight, Alex would leave him to fight at Scully's side. 

He hated the day, hated the heat and the bright sunlight. Even more, he feared for Lexi. He touched his friend's side with tentative fingers, brushed them over the smooth skin until his palm found a natural hollow in which to nestle. He could feel the heartbeat within, the breath, and, he imagined, the soul sleeping under his palm. 

Strangely, he found himself praying that darkness would never come. 

* * *

  
 

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